The Untold Story of Gwyneth Jackson
by carefreewritergirl
Summary: 3rd grade Gwyneth Jackson is intelligent beyond her years, but she doesn't know why. She doesn't know that Jackson is not actually her last name, or that she owes her brilliance to the alien DNA within her from her Time Lord father. But when she decides to manipulate time to save her mother during the Battle of Canary Wharf, she finds out the truth.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One** of **The Untold Story of Gwyneth Jackson**

 _by carefreewritergirl_

 _/Prologue/_

 _She was standing just outside her bedroom door. Inside, she could hear her passionate scribbling and was again stabbed by the hurt and pain she had felt so long ago. She had thought that most pain, even deep agony, dulled with time, but now she found that it hadn't. Breathing in sharply, she clamped her hand to her mouth to stifle an abrupt sob. The clock on the mantlepiece downstairs chimed once, a thrilling, eerie sound. It sent tremors through her, knowing what would happen next. She waited a few moments, listening earnestly._

 _The scribbling stopped._

 _If listening to the scribbling was painful, listening to the silence was ten times more so. So empty and yet so full and thick, like a heavy blanket coating the house, pressing down and stifling everything inside it. To her, the absence of sound felt louder than the sound itself. Like a trumpet blast in her ears, it woke her to the reality of what had just happened. Now her younger self was truly and completely gone - forever._

 _She felt weak at the knees. Steeling herself, she pushed the door open. Pale moonlight lit her bedspread. The soft indentation of where a small bottom had rested only moments before was visible. She slowly, tentatively, sat down. The bedspread was still warm._

 _She looked down and saw the pencil she had been writing with casting a thin black shadow against the carpet._

 _And as her eyes traveled around the room she saw other things:_

 _The strange black lump in the corner where she had tossed her old clothes in an icy fury._

 _Her books, CDs, pictures._

 _Her various relics from Torchwood that she had dissected and examined._

 _They were all there. They were all hers._

 _Except they weren't really, not anymore. They all belonged to a version of herself that no longer existed._

 _Leaning forward, she sobbed into her palms._

/

 _E_

 _m_

 _a_

 _i_

 _l_

 _s_

/

To: marsham

From: gwynjack

Subj: Higher Grade Level

Dear Mrs. Marsh,

I have been wanting to write to you for some time about the possibility of my being taken out of Kindergarten and switched to a higher grade level. I'm sure you would agree that since I have already mastered the alphabet and know basic sums there is little reason for me to remain in your class. I love the art projects though. They are stupendous. And that one doll we are allowed to play with during free time with half its hair out and an eye missing - simply brilliant. It's obvious that it was only handled by the most responsible and caring of children; they should get a sticker for treating the thing so beautifully.

But anyway, I am obviously getting off topic. The purpose of this letter is not to be sarcastic, but to persuade you that a higher grade level would be greatly beneficial to me. Not only would I be challenged, but I would also succeed in my dream of becoming a prodigy and a polymath and rising above my prosaic classmates. So many more doors will open for me, so to speak. Surely you understand?

The bottom line is this: If I continue to remain in your class, I will only be wasting precious time. A man only lives once, after all (I think). All that remains for me to do is to decide what to do with the time that is given me. I have decided. It is up to you to make the decision a reality. Will you do it, for my sake and for the sake of a world that needs me?

Sincerely,

Gwyneth Jackson

P.S. I think sixth grade would be ideal. I have talked to other sixth graders and I believe that although their math curriculum is mediocre, the English and Science subjects will challenge me. Perhaps I can move up to a higher grade level for math?

P.P.S. Did you catch the Lord of the Rings reference? (Hint: It was a Gandalf quote.)

* * *

To: gwyjack

From: marsham

Re: Higher Grade Level

Gwyneth:

I would like to begin by telling you how impressed I am that you have begun to take these steps for yourself. That, more than anything I have seen or heard you do, convinces me of your superior intelligence. Showing initiative is a trait lacking in many children much older than yourself.

However, transferring you to a higher grade level, as young as you are, is practically unheard of. It will take more than my testimonial to guarantee you a place in a grade above your own, especially if you are considering skipping s _ix_ grades. You most likely will need to take a test to convince people other than myself that you are ready to take on responsibilities and academic work that are usually only taken on by people twice your age.

But before even this happens, I must arrange a meeting with your parents to talk about your idea and establish that they are comfortable with it. We can not go through this without their consent.

Show them this email and let me know as soon as possible when you are available to meet.

All the best,

Mrs. Marsh

/

 _1_

/

 **The** instant Gwyneth Jackson walked into her brand-new third grade class, she knew something was wrong.

It had to do with the fact that the adults were clustered in a group talking earnestly to one another and the kids were in another group, talking eagerly amongst themselves. All the humanity in the room was a member of one of the groups-except a small-boned frail little boy with long messy hair. He was standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, silent, still.

A tall brunette girl with an arrogant stride broke from the group of laughing, talking children and passed near the lone boy on her way to the tissue box. She pulled on his hair casually as she went. "Look at this little squirt," she said rather loudly. "What do you think, peeps? Boy or girl?"

Eager for some distraction, the group quickly gathered around the boy and began debating in overly enthusiastic voices whether he was a female or a male. They made a show of pulling at his hair and remarking how long it was, some mockingly saying that he _had_ to be a girl, no boy could have hair that long. The brunette girl snapped her gum and put in scathing comments at intervals. The adults continued their conversation, oblivious.

Gwyneth's original plan was to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She had promised to Mrs. Marsh and her parents to remain mute during class discussions and only showing the true measure of her intelligence through her written work, which usually only the teacher was allowed to see. She knew that if any student of this class got even _close_ to suspecting that she was more intelligent than them, the hostility they would show would be astounding. No one had to tell her this: She had a grasp on human nature far above her age.

But she knew now that these kids would bully her no matter what. She had prepared herself for the fact that, being noticeably younger than them, she would naturally gardner some curiosity and attention from the other students. But seeing them now, bullying a kid just because he happened to have longer hair than them - well, in that case she was _bound_ to attract negative attention. So she had no chance. No chance at all.

Watching them, she felt a mixture of loathing and despair.

And then, in a moment of decisive action, she stepped right in front of the girl with the brunette hair, forcing her to pay attention to her, the preschooler, the little twit who didn't know anything, rather than the long-haired boy/girl. Immediately everyone fell silent and stared at her. And stared. And stared. Gwyneth tried to make herself believe the staring bothered her, but really she was enjoying it rather a lot.

"What are you doing here, baby?" the brunette girl said after recovering from her surprise. "Off to find your mummy? Scraped your knee and need a band-aid with Elmo on it, hmm?" She spat her gum into the trash can and twirled around to face Gwyneth, her arms folded in a guarded, don't-mess-with-me pose.

Gwyneth straightened her slender frame, raised her head to meet her opponent's gaze, and put back her shoulders. She gathered every ounce of hate and anger she felt towards this girl and channeled it into her ferocious glare, a glare that sliced through her opponent like a knife through playdoh. The brunette stared stupidly, her mouth half-open.

Gwyneth swept her gaze among the other children; it was like a blazing light from a lighthouse piercing through a dark night. No one could meet it for long. The icy fury in those bright brown eyes was so terrible, so beyond all imagination, that it seemed to burn into their very hearts and lodge there like a scorching-hot rock. The heat of that anger was never forgotten by any of the children. There was something so... _unearthly_ about it. Not normal. Strange. Alien, even.

When Gwyneth spoke, she kept her voice a low and cool monotone. "Why should how many dead cells a person has piled on top of their head determine whether or not they are eligible for bullying?"

"Excuse me?" the brunette girl said, her voice sharp with a note of hysteria just hovering beneath the surface.

"In other words, why should long hair merit bullying?"

"What kind of stupid question is that? It's ugly and gross. Besides, he looks like a _girl._ "

"Let me ask you this," Gwyneth paused, again sweeping her lucid, fiery gaze throughout the cluster of children. "What if every boy on the planet had long hair like that boy did? What if _you_ were a boy, and you were the only one who had short hair? Who do you think people would be calling ugly?"

The brunette girl did not respond. The silence was intense.

Gwyneth cleared her throat. She fixed her gaze on the semicircle of children and ejected every ounce of venom she could into her words. "You. You would be the "ugly" one. Do you understand what I'm saying? Beauty's just an idea, fabricated in people's minds, an idea society makes and one that changes over time. The meaning of beauty differs with people's perception of it. That means beauty has no meaning. That means your hurtful words have no meaning. Which means I don't understand you and that your words have no impact on me or on this boy."

She finished her spiel and let the words sink in. Most of the children's faces looked blank. A few were fearful. One was filled with awe.

" _But,_ I _do_ understand your intention. You meant to hurt this boy with your words. You were bored. You wanted attention. You needed to make yourself feel better. And I understand that _because_ you use others to make yourself feel better about yourself, that inside you are weak. Weak, because you let evil and jealousy get the best of you."

Silence. Stunned faces. Wide eyes. As one they broke off and scattered from her like leaves in the wind.

Gwyneth turned to the boy, who still stood mute and immobile beside her. She could see his eyes, staring at her through a film of thin blond hair. She tried to read his expression. "What?" she asked. Her question came out as a bark: Terse. Annoyed. She tried to relax her posture, but found she was incapable of it.

"What's your name?"

Quick. Abrupt. Breathless. Gwyneth didn't know what to think. His expression was still unreadable.

"It's Gwyneth. Gwyneth Jackson." She smiled, tried to put some warmth behind her words, tried to make him feel at ease so he could see that she was a friend, or at the very least someone sympathetic to his situation.

The boy's chin began to tremble. He took a step backwards, one finger up and pointing at her.

"No...no _way._..you can't be...impossible…" He was shaking his head rapidly, his blue eyes wide and fearful. He stared at her a moment longer, then, stumbling in his haste, raced as fast as he could out of the room.

Gwyneth stared after him helplessly. Was this something to do with saving him from the bullies? Was he mad at her for doing so? But no, it was when she told him her name that he began to blow up, not beforehand. This was something to do with her name. It _meant_ something to him.

Ridiculous. She had never seen him before. She had an absolutely ordinary name. There were probably a thousand Gwyneths and Jacksons in London alone. There was no reason for him to get so upset over such a small and meaningless little thing as her name.

She walked over to a small blond girl who had just come into the classroom with her mother a few seconds ago; now she was looking at the fish aquarium. "You know the kid with the long hair?" Gwyneth asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. "What's his name?"

The girl tapped idly on the glass, trying to get the attention of a tiger fish. "Oh, the really long blond hair? Blue eyes?"

Gwyneth nodded.

"Oh." The girl shrugged, disinterested. "That's Tony. Tony Tyler."

* * *

Tony was leaping from one foot to the other, anxious energy streaming through him. Wherewashisfatherwherewashisfather _where was he_? He watched the cars driving by, picking up kids, but he couldn't see his father's Ford anywhere. Oh if he didn't get here _right this very minute…_

Finally! Suddenly he was leaping, flying, dodging backpack-clad children and bikes that just managed to screech to a stop when he came near. He ignored their frustrated yells and ran on, his tiny legs pumping up and down. Reaching the car, he catapulted in and slammed the door closed with perhaps more force than was necessary. Breathlessly, he grabbed the granola bar proffered by father, ripped it open, crammed it hastily into his mouth, and started to gabble incoherently as his father pulled out of the parking lot.

"Daddaddaddad, guess who I saw today, you won't believe it, you won't!"

"Slow down, son." His dad glanced at him, smiling a little at Tony's obvious eagerness and excitement.

"But _dad_ ," Tony said, carelessly throwing the empty wrapper of the granola bar behind him and leaning eagerly forward to his father, "it was-"

But his father was distracted. "Tony, pick up your wrapper. Remember what I said about littering the car."

Tony gave a quick disparaging glance at the wrapper, now crumpled up in the back seat. He leaned forward again and grabbed his father's arm impulsively. "But dad it was-"

"TONY."

"-Gwyneth Jackson," Tony finished. Total silence fell in the car; outside the blare of car horns felt like a million miles away. His father's hands were rigid on the wheel. Slowly he turned his head to look out of the car. Tony followed his gaze.

There she was. Standing there rigidly like a statue. Staring at them with a blazing, puzzled, slightly harsh look in her penetrating brown eyes. Tony found he was caught in her gaze, unable to look away.

Suddenly the car lurched. Tony was thrown backward against his seat. "Dad…"

His father's hands were still like iron gripping the wheel, his face a rictus of concentration and pent-up pain. He didn't answer.

Tony tried again. "What's wr-"

"Tony," his father snapped abruptly, his eyes glued to the road ahead, " _shut your mouth_."

Tony reluctantly closed his mouth. When his father spoke like that, there was no use arguing.

* * *

Gwyneth watched in annoyed perplexity as Tony's car drove away. She stood there, still and intent upon it, until it passed behind another wall of cars and she couldn't see it anymore, then reluctantly shook her head. The mystery of this strange kid would have to wait-at least for now. Tomorrow she'd resume unraveling the answer behind his peculiar reaction to her name. But maybe-an idea sprang into her head-she could make some progress right here.

She spun on her heel, turned toward the school wall in a dramatically secretive fashion, and pulled out her phone from her backpack, logging on swiftly and searching "Tyler London". She waited in impatience as Google loaded the results.

She clicked on several promising links, but after a cursory search she was forced to conclude there was nothing, nothing easily accessible at least. This was going to be even harder than she had originally thought.

Frustrated, she thrust her phone back in her pocket and started on the trek home. Gradually sunlight faded and shadows fell, stabbing the pavement like sharp black knives.

As the sun was beginning to slip beneath the horizon she passed a small grocery. A few cars were parked there but it was mostly deserted. Gwyneth stared about idly and noticed a lone woman making her way across the concrete with a couple bags of groceries. Suddenly the woman cried out-in one swift breathtaking motion she fell to the pavement. Brightly-colored groceries surrounded her like candies scattered on the ground.

Before Gwyneth had consciously recognized what had happened she was next to the woman, rapidly scooping up cans and other oddments that had fallen to the ground. The woman thanked her profusely over and over again. Gwyneth was getting rather peeved by it all, actually (it seemed like she was getting pissed off a lot today).

"Yes, yes, fine, fine," she said, resolutely pushing away offered money. "I'll help carry the groceries to your car, and then I'll be on my way. No payment needed, thanks."

Again the woman thanked her, but as Gwyneth hoisted the groceries for the first time she noticed the woman's face. For a moment she stopped and stared, forgetting herself. There was something so _familiar_ about her, something Gwyneth could not place but felt like she ought to know. It disturbed her. Deeply.

"Something wrong dear?" The woman also seemed a bit nervous. Had she been nervous _before_ Gwyneth's stare, or had her anxiety _been caused_ from Gwyneth's stare? Gwyneth didn't know for sure, but for some reason she had a vague suspicion that the woman had been nervous ever since she had laid eyes on Gwyneth. That her anxiety had originated with Gwyneth's appearance.

"Dear?"

Gwyneth came to herself, shook herself, forced herself to focus on the world around her. "What? - sorry."

The woman shyly tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and clasped her hands in front of her. "Anything I can do to help?"

The two of them locked eyes. The question seemed so genuine, and the lady's voice so full of real compassion. It was evident to Gwyneth that she really meant what she said, that she wasn't just saying it out of a robotic instinct or simply to be polite. And again, Gwyneth got the same spooky overpowering feeling that this woman _knew_ her, knew her in a way even her own parents didn't know her...

Gwyneth broke the gaze and looked down. She slowly shook her head again. This was wrong-she must have gotten something wrong. Too many strange thing had happened today. She was just feeling "out of sorts" as her mother called it. It would pass. It always did.

"No, nothing," she answered. She loaded the groceries into the car and saw a dog poking his head out of the window. Immediately she went to fondle his head and stroke his ears. He was beautiful. Gwyneth was jealous; she had always wanted a dog.

"That's Gareth," the woman said, smiling as she opened the front door.

"I've always wanted a dog," Gwyneth said. Immediately afterwards she bit her lip. What did she say _that_ for? This woman was a stranger. And yet there was something that made Gwyneth instinctively trust her. _Why?_

"Maybe someday you'll get one," the woman said. Her face was turned away now, and Gwyneth couldn't see her expression, but a certain cadence in her voice seemed to suggest she knew more than she was letting on. It only added to Gwyneth's discomfort and sense of confusion. She stepped away from the dog-it too suddenly seemed to have a malicious glint in its all-too-innocent brown eyes. She felt her foreboding and fear increase. Why had she disobeyed Rule Number 1 for small children, a rule she should have obeyed no matter how intelligent and competent she believed she was: DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS.

She started to walk backwards; tripped and righted herself, then turned and began running as fast as she could away from that weird woman and the mysterious, creepy dog.

"Wait!" the woman called frantically after Gwyneth, her voice breaking, her shout strangled. "Wait! _You have to watch for the cracks, Gwyneth Jackson! The cracks are your only chance of escape!"_

A part of Gwyneth wanted to stop. A part of her wanted to call to the woman, _What cracks? What do you mean? Why would I ever need to escape? What would I be escaping from? How do you know this? How do you know my name?_ But most of her was too scared, too frightened to do anything but continue to run, run as fast as her tiny legs could carry her away from the deserted parking lot as the shadows deepened and darkened and melded with the night.

~Please remember that reviews are always appreciated. :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two** of **The Untold Story of Gwyneth Jackson**

 _by carefreewritergirl_

 _/2/_

 **I** t was a long time before she stopped, or at least it felt like a long time to her. But eventually her lungs could suck in no more air and her legs screamed with the effort of raising them and setting them down. So she collapsed on the grass by the sidewalk and lay there, gasping, trying to breathe. The grass was the grass of her front lawn, and she was only a few hundred feet from her front door, but at that moment going further was impossible.

As her breathing quieted she lay there and thought over the day, every peculiar, wondrous, horrible part of it, and after going over it a few more times she was forced to conclude with what she'd known from the very beginning: That she was different, and in no small way either. Her difference was large enough to be felt every day by more people than just herself, but the hard thing about it was that there seemed to be no logical explanation for it. Her parents, for one, were intelligent but perfectly normal people. So genetics couldn't be a factor...or could it? Maybe she was genetically modified at birth, and no one had had the guts to tell her.

The instant she thought this she shook her head vehemently. Her parents wouldn't keep secrets from her. Maybe other kids' parents would, but she _knew_ her parents and loved and trusted them in a way few children did. They wouldn't lie to her. They _couldn't_ lie to her, otherwise they wouldn't be her parents, they would be hijacked manipulated slaves under the control of some uber-smart Alien Lord who lived on a distant planet.

She smiled reminiscently, recalling their many discussions on alien life as her father showed her a new artifact brought home from his work at Torchwood. She would carefully examine the object using the atom telescopes and 3D computer software they housed in their basement, take astute observations, then make well-educated inferences based on the observations. She was proud of the fact she could help her father with his work, even in a small way, and that her work was valued. Many people at Torchwood used to feel that having a five-year-old child handle alien technology was madness, but after they met Gwyneth they were forced to conclude that she matched them in intelligence if not in height. Since then Gwyneth had grown to be friendly with most of the Torchwood staff and close friends with a few.

Her smile faded as her thoughts shifted to school, and cold fear gripped her heart. Just because she was on good terms with thirty-year-olds people with doctorates did _not_ mean it would be easy to make friends at school. Anyone who knew her even slightly was aware that as intelligent as she was, she had the friskiness and carefree antics of a child. She loved playing hide-and-seek and tag and having food fights. But she was afraid that the only thing the kids at school would see was that she was smarter and more knowledgeable than them, and they would despise and envy her for it. To have that happen...was unthinkable. Even she, a vibrant, courageous spirit, would wither underneath the weight of all that hate.

"Honey?" The grass rustled with the evening wind, carrying a soft voice to Gwyneth's ears. She rolled over on her side and saw that through the glowing luminescence of the open front door, a corpulent shadow was standing and looking about anxiously. Feeling vaguely guilty, Gwyneth leapt lithely to her feet.

"Estoy aqui, Mama," she said, making her way deftly to the door and into her mother's open arms. She felt the stress melt away as she stood there wrapped in her mom's embrace-it slid off her like water and away into the grass, and memories of school and of the mysterious woman went with it. Inside she could smell the rich aroma of stew cooking in the crockpot. "Smells splendid."

Her mom didn't respond.

Gwyneth turned to look more closely at her mom, mouth open with a query, but the moment she saw her expression she closed it again. For her mother was crying-staring at her daughter in a very pensive, sorrowful way, and crying.

* * *

Tony slammed the door shut with more force than necessary and grit his teeth as he opened his backpack, spilling random clutter all over the table. Why had his father blown up so when he saw Gwyneth? Tony didn't understand it. Yes, she was perhaps the second most amazing human being currently on earth, and yes, her appearance might bring back memories, difficult, painful, but beautiful memories, but there was no reason for his father to get so angry.

But then...he had heard his father and mother speak with sharp, fierce words about their daughter, how foolish she was, running away from them again, but even in the incredible pain and anger in their voices Tony couldn't help noticing the love that seeped through. And pride. Despite being wistful and wrathful they also admired Rose for what she did, and maybe even felt a little jealousy with their admiration. Perhaps such a medley of emotions had hit his father at the exact split second of laying his eyes on his granddaughter, and _that_ was what had caused the horror and revulsion on his face.

But Tony wasn't aiming on giving up yet. He wanted to be Gwyneth's friend; he wanted to laugh and talk about intelligent things with her. And maybe a little later, once he'd gotten to know her more, he wanted to be more than a friend-he wanted to be her uncle.

* * *

"Mom," Gwyneth said for the billionth time, "tell me what is going on."

They were sitting in their dining room, which had pale blue wallpaper, a skylight, and a couple 3D printers in one corner. Plastic filament was scattered across the counter.

"Honey, how many times have I told you to keep your filament downstairs in the cupboard?" her mother said, ignoring her words for the billionth time. "Pick them up after you eat, please."

"I will Mom," Gwyneth said impatiently. "But you're hiding something from me. I need to know what it is. _Please."_

"Then you can do the dishes," her mother said, her voice catching and breaking on the word _dishes._ She rose to her feet quickly and walked rapidly to the radio, turning it on full volume.

Gwyneth had had enough. Jumping to her feet she ran to the radio and slammed it off. Breathing shallowly, her heartbeat loud in her ears, she said as calmly and clearly as she could, "STOP. Mom. STOP DOING THIS TO ME."

The kitchen rang with the silence. Gwyneth could see her father at the table, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth, his face frozen. His eyes traveled slowly to meet her mother's, and one pale eyebrow raised slightly.

It was a challenge. The same challenge Gwyneth was now presenting to her mother. He was on her side.

For a moment it looked as if her mom would scream, or burst into tears, or maybe both at once. But then she took a deep breath, her face relaxed, and her voice grew calm and steady. "I can't tell you that, darling," she said, taking Gwyneth into her arms. "But you won't have to wait for long. You'll find out tomorrow, because tomorrow is your sixth birthday."

A special emphasis she placed on 'your sixth birthday', as if they were the most important words in the sentence or indeed the most important words she had ever said.

"But why? Why tomorrow? Why my birthday? Why can't I know immediately?" Gwyneth whispered. She felt lost and hopeless; the same feelings she had while she lay on the lawn rushed upon her again in more intensity than before. All she got in answer was a tightening of the arms around her waist and a soft stroking of her hair. Gwyneth bit her lip and tried not to cry.

* * *

The rest of the evening was spent in subdued silence. Mrs. Jackson sat typing out various emails, her lips pursed. Gwyneth's father retreated to the basement, and for once Gwyneth didn't follow him.

Instead, she sat alone in on her bed, the pale, dirty glow from the twilight quickly fading away, casting her room into darkness, figures on her posters grinning wickedly at her from where she sat. She took no notice of them, however. Her diary was open on her knees and she was writing furiously. She left out the customary _dear diary_ -as the diary was an inanimate object and couldn't hear, it would be ridiculous to address it as though it could.

 _September 12, 2014_

 _My mind is so muddled; I hardly know what to write. But strange things are happening all around me. The first happened when I was walking home from school, and a lady dropped her groceries all over the pavement. While I was helping her load them into her trunk, she said things that were just_ wrong. _I told her I always wanted a dog, and she said I might get one, but it was more like she_ knew _I would get one...but she couldn't know that, could she? She looked so familiar too... and the last thing she said, shouted after me really, since I was running away...she said, "Watch for the cracks, Gwyneth Jackson! The cracks are your only chance of escape!"_

 _I reckon she must be mental. But that doesn't explain why, doesn't explain how she could have_ possibly known my name... _I_ swear _I never mentioned it to her…_

Gwyneth stopped writing. Her hand was shaking far too badly to continue, and her heart was walloping against her chest. Darkness had fallen, but a beam of light from an outside street lamp had lit the word _cracks_ until it filled all of her vision, until its meaning become the only meaning there was but its meaning still escaped her. Closing the diary and clutching it hard to her chest, she carefully felt her way through the darkness and down the hallway to the bathroom. She just needed a drink of water, that's all, and she'd be fine…

"It hurts me, Fred, keeping things from the child…"

Gwyneth stopped abruptly, her grip on her diary loosening and finally slipping from her sweaty hand. It fell on the carpet with a dull _whump._ Mortified, Gwyneth stood stock still, her heart threatening to push its way out her mouth. She had heard her mother speaking, and it sounded as though she were speaking of her…

A low, gruff voice responded. "It's what her father asked us to do, Marianne. And we all knew it was best. To realize your father is an alien from another world...that kind of knowledge can't be given lightly. It's best if her dad and mom tell her themselves."

"Do you think she's ready?"

"She manages to hold intelligent discussions with the most brilliant intellectuals and geniuses of our day, she understands photons and ultraviolet light and electricity, she speaks two languages fluently just by picking them up and piecing them together herself - if she's not ready, who would be?"

"I know, it's just...she's so _young._ And what she'll be doing is dangerous. Saving worlds, fighting aliens...she shouldn't do it, Greg! I can't stand it!"

As her mother broke down into renewed sobbing, Gwyneth stood, stunned by what she had just heard. Her mind was petrified; she couldn't think. Phrases from her parents' conversation rolled around again and again in her mind…

 _To realize your father is an alien from another world…_

 _If she's not ready, who would be…_

 _Saving worlds, fighting aliens…_

In a trance she fumbled in the dark for her journal, scooped it clumsily into her arms, and turned to walk dazedly back to her room, her idea of getting a drink of water forgotten. Vague thoughts battled in her mind, each trying to get the better of the other, each, she knew, a puzzle piece to figuring out the strange mystery that had grown up around her. Her mind was tired and her nerves were fried, but relentlessly she struggled to set her emotions aside and organize the facts. Taking her seat again on the bed, she opened the journal and listed facts as precise bullet-points. By the time she was writing her tenth bullet-point her breathing had slowed and she felt much calmer. _You're all right, Gwyneth,_ she told herself. _You are going to figure this out._

But at that moment all further thoughts and hypotheses were wiped from her brain: The world had gone suddenly dark; a great whooshing noise filling the air around her. She was flying, hurtling through black space-and then, just as suddenly, she stopped. Light glowed through her closed eyelids. Cool air played about her ankles and legs, making a slight tickling sensation. She bit her lip, trying to keep herself from-what? Shouting? Crying? Screaming?

Slowly, tentatively, she opened her eyes.

She was standing in what appeared to be a vast, cavernous room. Above her, a very, very long way up, the ceiling arched in a magnificent transparent dome that was created from many small triangles of glass. Through the dome Gwyneth could see nothing. It was completely black. Somehow, the knowledge that it was still night calmed her. It gave her the comforting possibility that perhaps she really hadn't traveled far from home after all.

Looking around her, she saw rows and rows of empty seats and desks with computers stretching away till the middle of the room, where there was one huge desk covered in complicated dials and switches. Beyond that was an elevator, and beyond that was obviously the rest of the very large room. Gwyneth couldn't see what was in it from where she stood.

Whatever the facility was, Gwyneth guessed that it was probably made to accommodate a vast amount of people, but there was nobody in sight. She began to carefully walk up and down the rows, examining the equipment. Some of it she had seen in her work at Torchwood, but most of it completely baffled her. Nevertheless, it was an environment she was familiar with, and her heart-rate began to slow as her mind took up the task of deciphering the incredible technology all around her. This was something she was good at. This was something she loved.

Observing an earpiece that was attached to the desk near the mouse, she immediately put it on and toggled the switch; the computer flickered on to show a dull gray screen. A cool feminine voice echoed in her ears: "Please state your name, position, language, race, age, species, access code, and bathroom and sleeping quarters number. Please also answer the following True or False question: Is the Master the most awesomest thing in the universe (this includes both biotic and abiotic 'things'), true or false?"

For a split-second Gwyneth was too flabbergasted to speak. Was this a joke? Her senses came back in a rush and she whipped off her earpiece, prised it open with her fingernails, and began to poke around inside, disabling the speaker and the login activated by the sound waves coming from her mouth. Inserting it back in her ear, she noticed the screen had turned from its former dull gray into a normal home screen with icons. But they weren't normal icons. The first one she hovered over read DISABLIZER OF VIBRATIONARY AND VISIONARY CLOAK DEVICE.

She clicked it.

A weird, incessant humming pierced the air about her. Wheeling her seat around, she scanned the area and saw that strange shimmerings had appeared like blue waves in the air, catching sunlight. Within a few seconds they had solidified into people.

People, people, people. People in chairs sitting in front of their computers. People standing up talking rapidly into their earpieces. People carrying coffee and scribbling notes on little bits of paper. On every side noise of people walking, typing, eating, talking hit Gwyneth's eardrums, an alarm clock startling her out of her trance. She struggled to take it in.

And then it stopped, because one by one every person's eye had turned to her. They were now staring at her silently, unabashedly, as if it were a zoo and she was the main figure on display.

Out of the crowd of silently staring people one man emerged, and Gwyneth saw at once that he was da'man, the big shot, the boss of all these people. The way he sauntered over to her told her that he plainly thought himself king of the universe. Gwyneth narrowed her eyes. People who believed the universe would bend to their will no matter what they said or did were very dangerous people-and also insane.

"Wellllllll, well, well," the man said, clapping his hands together and grinning toothily. His white-blond hair formed a widow's peak over his stubbled chin, and his eyes were dark brown and intense on her. Gwyneth felt herself wilt under his scrutiny, but kept her eyes on him. Something about his smile was... _wrong._ A bit too hungry, almost.

The man leaned closer. "You managed it, you managed it! Perhaps someday you will be as brilliant as your father...of course, you'll never be as brilliant as _me."_

Despite the fact that all the blood in her body had seemingly rushed to her ears, Gwyneth still heard the arrogant man's words, and something within her flared into a steady flame of anger. "How do you know my father?" she snapped, her fingers unconsciously curling into a fist; even her skin felt unnaturally hot. "How would _you_ know if you are more intelligent than him? And even if you _are,_ there are so many more qualities that my father has that you don't: He's wise, and kind, and-"

The grin had been growing wider and wider on the blond man's face by the millisecond. Now it was so wide it looked as though his face were about to split open. He turned and whispered loudly to a rather short and scrawny man on his left. "Knowledge is power, Barnabas. And look how much she doesn't know…"

Gwyneth dearly longed to whisper _What don't I know?_ but the maniacal glint in the strange man's eyes stopped her. Noticing her inquiring stare, he turned and did a spin on the spot, landing easily in front of her with his hand outstretched.

"Wasting time...wasting time...my foible, my fault, my bad as always. I'm Harold Saxon, and I don't exist in your parallel universe, is that correct? And who might you be?"

It took every ounce of effort Gwyneth had not to slap his face or stomp on his foot; she knew this man had brought her here and was aware of her name-and probably even more than that, she thought darkly. Nevertheless, she smiled (or rather grimaced) and shook his hand. It was dry, she noted. Dry and cold, like a desert in the dead of night.

"Gwyneth Jackson," she replied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three** of **The Untold Story of Gwyneth Jackson**

 _by carefreewritergirl_

/3/

" **W** elcome, welcome, Gwyneth," the man that Gwyneth now knew to be Harold Saxon said carelessly. "You must have many questions...never fear, they will be answered soon enough. But first, you may be interested to meet someone you may know…would you like to see someone familiar, Gwyneth?"

Gwyneth didn't answer; her eyes still trained on the man. She still didn't know if he could be trusted.

"Come here, then."

The crowd of people parted to let Gwyneth through. She made her way to a severe-looking woman who pushed her down roughly and wrapped a blindfold around her head. Gwyneth did not struggle but let the woman secure the blindfold without protest. Mainly she felt puzzlement. Certainly blindfolds couldn't be their way of blinding captives? They had to have more advanced technology than that? Anyone who went into the most high-security areas in Torchwood were required to take a pill to temporarily impair their vision, and that way they wouldn't remember how they had gotten there. But Harold Saxon apparently felt that with a small child like herself he could afford to use old-fashioned methods. Well, she thought, gritting her teeth, she'd show him she wasn't to be underestimated.

The same severe-looking woman took her away from the large control-room. For a long time they walked through brightly-lit white linoleum hallways; Gwyneth could see them even through her cloth. It was all very inhumane and cold and she felt herself shivering involuntarily.

Every once and a while they would pass a junction between two hallways and Gwyneth would see a flash of a number and a letter with a dash between them. A-1, A-2...B-5, B-6...when they had reached C-1, the woman told her brusquely to stop. Gwyneth halted and peered painfully through the striped fabric to what looked like a mini computer set into the wall. The woman pointed a slender, pencil-like object at it and a soft buzzing filled the air. Bright blue light blinked three time from the end of the tool and Gwyneth could hear an audible _click._ A door slid gently open.

"Just in here," the woman said in a dull, bored voice. "You may take the blindfold off."

Gwyneth untied it easily and slipped it into her back pocket. She was standing in a plain, metal room without windows or furniture. She glanced around the room. It was quite empty.

Then she heard a faint groan.

She turned toward it, half expecting the noise to be a figment of her imagination. But it wasn't. A small shadow lay hunched in the corner, its dirty gray clothes blending into the featureless wall behind it. It was rocking back and forth, slowly, mournfully, crooning in a voice like wind through prairie grass.

A bang echoed behind her.

She whirled around, the breath catching in her chest. The woman had closed the door behind her; the door now blended seamlessly with the rest of the wall.

She thought suddenly, _I'm trapped._

But the next instant she pushed the thought away. There was nothing she could do about it. Instead she walked hesitantly to where the figure lay, still murmuring tonelessly.

"I'm lonely."

The figure stopped murmuring at her words and sat absolutely still.

"I'm lonely," Gwyneth said again. She had found that if you shared a bit of yourself with someone first, they were more willing to open up to you. "I'm more intelligent than everyone I know that's my own age, and everyone I can have legitimate discussions with are all four times my age or more. And strange things are happening to me, and I don't know why."

She began to talk. She started with that day, with everything that had frustrated her, and worked backwards. Soon she was talking about memories she had half-forgotten-the smell of paint from when she had built her own ramp for her wooden cars her father had made her when she was three, making marshmallow cookies and other strange concoctions in the kitchen. Anything that came to mind, she said it, and soon forgot she was talking to anyone at all.

"There is something I need to tell you."

The urgency in the voice startled her. She saw to her astonishment that the figure had sat up and pushed his hood back, revealing a gaunt face, straggly hair, and wide, empty eyes.

Her breath caught in her chest. It hit her like a pillow in the stomach; suddenly she was gasping for breath. This man...she knew him. He worked at Torchwood. Her father and him were co workers.

"Mr. Ty-," she began.

But it was too late. The world was starting to fade around her-some sort of teleport was at work. The last thing she saw was his huge, desperate eyes and his mouth open in a silent yell of horror.

* * *

Slowly her vision focused. Her face was pressed to the cool linoleum and she could see the side of a polished black shoe. Around her was a forest of legs, constantly moving, making her feel sick. Everything was blurred and unreal.

Brisk steps echoed weirdly in her ears and someone hoisted her to her feet. Everyone and everything had gone completely silent. She was facing a gigantic screen, and on it, that loathed man, Gerald Bacon, or whoever he was.

"Did you recognize him, then?" Gerald Bacon said into the silence. "But ah, not quite as you knew him, am I right? A little bit older, perhaps?"

The whole world seemed to be vibrating. Gwyneth realized she was shaking. Shaking with fury.

" _What have you done to him?"_ she whispered, every syllable barely distinguishable from rage. " _What have you_ _**done**_ _?"_

Gerald Bacon talked over her, taking no notice of her words. "I will be teaching you many lessons, Gwyneth Jackson, over the following days, and the first lesson I will teach to you today. This is it: You will obey every order I give you, trivial though it may seem to be, or _he_ will die."

The screen flicked to an image of the bedraggled man, once again hunched in his corner. Gwyneth's skin had turned hard and unresponsive, like rock. Only her eyes were working, burning with unshed tears.

Someone took her hand roughly and led her away. Vaguely she was aware that people were moving again, going about their tasks, like nothing had happened, like an innocent man's life hadn't been threatened for no reason at all.

 _He might not be innocent,_ a voice said in Gwyneth's ear. Immediately hot revulsion rose up in herself for thinking it. No, it was Gerald Bacon who was not innocent, not Pete Tyler.

A slam echoed from behind her. Oblivious while in her thoughts, she found herself now to be in a small, boxlike room, very similar to the one she had recently left.

Strange...the air had a weird scent...was that smoke?...her eyelids were growing heavy...her hearing was muffled...she felt herself dropping, as though from a long way away, on the cold white floor…

* * *

Tony scribbled an extra sentence beneath question six to achieve the three sentences required to answer the question, then threw his pencil across the room, where it hit his blinds and punctured them, producing a long, jagged line. He surveyed it for a moment in distaste, but couldn't bring himself to feel any guilt-He was still angry at his father for his unexplained spasm at seeing Gwyneth. Wasn't she a hero in her own world? He had heard all about it, how Rose Jones had meet this man named-

 _Thuwump._

Tony leapt to his feet, startled from his reverie. A sound had come from downstairs, where his father was working, a sound of something falling…

Before Tony knew what he was doing he was running as fast as he possibly could, running out his bedroom, down the stairs, through the sitting room, almost falling in his haste down the downstairs steps…

He stopped at the foot of the stairs.

"Dad?" he said uncertainly.

There was no sound.

His heart missed a beat, then drummed faster, as if to make up for lost time.

He pushed his way past the heavy black drapings concealing his father's business at Torchwood, the ones his father had warned him never to pass, lest he be subjected to his anger. He barely glanced at the stuff that he had wished for so long to see-A long, thin metal tube with a glowing blue half-sphere at the end of it, some pieces of heavy metal equipment that looked like levers, a silvery metal helmet with empty eye sockets-but instead fought through the surrounding pareheralia to where he knew his father would be sitting, because whenever he called for him to come to dinner, his voice always emanated from here-

But no one was there. The chair his father always sat in lay on the floor, empty.

* * *

Gwyneth was thrust into wakefulness by an electric shock. She was distractedly trying (without much success) to comb her hair with her fingers, but before she had much time to make herself presentable, a door opened and a number of feminine-looking robots invaded her privacy.

"We will take you now through the G.A.P. Please follow us. Any resistance you make will be directly reported to Harold Saxon."

Gwyneth suppressed rolling her eyes with difficulty. No matter how technologically advanced robots were, in the end they were all the same: unable to talk more rapidly than the average 90-year-old person. "Could you please print out your commands on your hand-implanted screens?" Gwyneth asked them politely. The robots obliged, holding their palms up so Gwyneth could read the words glowing there: YOUR SIGHT WILL BE TEMPORARILY IMPAIRED SO AS TO ENSURE YOUR SAFETY.

 _My safety,_ Gwyneth thought sceptically as the nearest robot put a blindfold over her. _Yeah right._ Turning to the robot on her left she asked, "What does G.A.P. stand for?"

The robot held up her palm and Gwyneth read: GROWTH ACCELERATION PROCESS.

Gwyneth suddenly had a queasy sort of feeling in her stomach-a horrific image had entered her brain, that of a old, frail, hunchbacked woman with her eyes and T-shirt.

Following the robots docilely she was led into a large glass container, like a gigantic, upside-down drinking glass. She knew, because as she stretched out a quick hand her fingernails managed to scrape its smooth surface.

Without warning, there came a steady whirring. Starting out as barely a murmur, it grew and grew until it became an incessant, irritating buzz that neither changed pitch or volume. It slithered into Gwyneth's head and nested there, slowly sucking away at her thoughts. Gwyneth stood there, gritting her teeth, trying to fight against it, but it was impossible.

Gradually, a strange feeling came over her, as though every cell in her body had gone into hyperdrive. Every mitochondrien and protein and neutron were working harder than they ever had before, her pituitary gland was throbbing in her brain like a minute, nut-sized heart. She was growing-rapidly.

She could feel her body stretching, her hips widening, her chest expanding-and yet she did not feel angry, or frustrated, or interested. She did not feel anything at all. The buzzing, she realized in a detached way, was muting her feelings. It was allowing her to experience this without actually experiencing it.

The buzzing gently, almost imperceptibly, faded away. With a soft click the glass dome popped open. Gwyneth opened her eyes and gazed down at her body.

Tall. Willowy. Almost too skinny, she noted with distaste. Her long brown hair curled in soft waves down her back. She guessed she was around eighteen or nineteen years old, but she couldn't be sure.

She let her long legs carried her easily down to where a single robot waited, pointing a thin, cylinder-shaped instrument directly at the glass dome. Oh, so _that_ was where the buzzing had come from, technologically amplified, of course.

A sudden rage filled her. Sprinting the last couple meters, she used the momentum of her downward run to throw herself onto the robot, wrenching the cylinder, buzzing tool out of its hand. Then, without thinking, she flipped the device around in her hand and pointed the blue glowing end at the robot.

Electric connections sizzled, sparked. In a moment the robot lay there still, unmoving.

Gwyneth stood, holding the cylinder device in her hand, staring at the robot blankly in shock. What had she done? What had she been thinking? _In any moment,_ she thought, looking up wildly, _Harold Saxon's people are going to be here, they're going to lock me up and-NO."_ An image had just surfaced in her mind, of a bent, hunched figure in a shadowy corner. _They're going to kill him, they're going to kill him and it will be all my fault._

She sank to the ground, throwing the evil device as hard as she could across the room-it hit the wall and bounced harmlessly to the ground. For a moment she considered picking it up and throwing it again and again and again, throwing it until it broke into a thousand tiny pieces. But her anger had deserted her. She sobbed into her palms, her face growing wet and slimy from tears. Gradually the world grew dim around her, and she fell asleep on the cool white floor.

* * *

Tony lay in his bed staring at the ceiling while police lights throbbed through his bedroom curtains and low anxious voices talked on the floor below. It was night, but not late-usually he'd be watching his favorite television show right about now. Instead he had gone to bed early, hoping that if he fell asleep maybe the whole nightmare would go away, or at least be replaced with a less scary nightmare. But he hadn't been able to fall asleep at all, and try as he might, he couldn't wipe their faces from his mind-his father and Gwyneth. Both gone. Both vanished at the same time. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

Tony rolled over on his side and gazed out the window at the few stars peeking through the hazy clouds. As he looked a strange thought entered his head: _What if they had been abducted by aliens…?_

He shook himself- _Idiot,_ he thought-and turned over on his other side, away from the window into his sweet-smelling sheets. Their aroma comforted him, and he felt his limbs relax, his eyes close…

* * *

Gwyneth woke up with a start.

The sterile, eye-blindingly white room was still brightly lit, so she had no idea how much time had passed. She peeled her cheek from the floor and gazed around-she appeared to be alone. No one had come for her. No one had punished her.

For a split second she felt an almost dizzying sense of relief.

But then she realized that she had no idea where she was, she was hungry, and she was still very, very far from home.

There was only one way to fix that problem: She had to get away from here.

Retrieving the cylinder device from the ground, she walked swiftly to the large white doors that stood at the right end of the room. She tried, half-heartedly, to push them open, but she knew it would work. It would never be that easy.

She remembered with a pang something her father had once said to her: _If you're given a choice between the easy way and the hard way, Gwyneth, always choose the hard way._

She had asked, _Why, Daddy?_

 _If you choose the hard way, when trouble comes, it won't bother you, because you'll be so, so strong from doing hard things all your life._

Well, trouble had come, real trouble, and Gwyneth was pretty sure all the little hard things she had done in her life couldn't add up to this, the hardest thing of them all.

 _Well, Dad,_ she thought as she pointed the silver tool at the door and it clicked open, _I don't feel very strong right now. But I promise I'll do_ _ **everything**_ _in my power to save Pete Tyler and get back home._

~Please remember that reviews are always appreciated. :D


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